Bayou Bloodbath
by Kimmae
Summary: Follow four survivors—Nick, Ellis, Rochelle, and “Coach”—as they fight their way through zombie hordes to the last standing haven against the Green Flu epidemic in New Orleans. A novelization of Left 4 Dead 2 with poetic license. Discontinued.
1. Nick

_Note: I do not own VALVe or any of its affiliates. Consider this a disclaimer to the characters/themes/what have you presented in this story._

_A special thanks to my long-term beta Dee Troit; even though she wasn't familiar with the Left 4 Dead universe, she still agreed to beta for me. 'Cause she's awesome like that._

_Bayou Bloodbath_

**1: Nick**

I remember hearing about this thing once that studied these two guys over the course of a year; one guy had won the lottery, the other had been paralyzed from the waist down. Needless to say, the guy who'd won the money was ecstatic, and the guy who'd been paralyzed was nothing less than miserable. By the time a year had passed, both of them claimed equal levels of happiness. The conclusion: Happiness is relative. It's only been three or so weeks for me, but I feel like I can kick back and have myself some whiskey sours on a lawn chair overlooking the shore right before sunset, just as content as I was before all this zombie shit started happening.

Let me tell you a bit about myself first. I'd come to Savannah about a month ago looking to con a few people, win a few games. For the past—oh, I dunno, ten or so years, I'd been jumping from city to city, right from the moment I got my divorce, stealing money from under people's noses. I didn't have a home, let alone a house; just a car—a reliable old Buick '68 Skylark. Refurbished, obviously—red paint job, brand new carburetor, bitchin' engine—all that good stuff. I always found it comforting to know the car was older than me. Kind of like a big brother sometimes, if a man can find a love like that in cars (I named it Big Steve).

The kind of con I tended to pull had to do with a credit card. When I was a kid, it started with taking credit card slips from work and ripping off the information. I worked in a dingy, run-down corner store, and the management was so fuckin' flimsy that my supervisor would just reprint the slips that went "missing" at day end, no questions asked. When I graduated, I moved on to the Minor Leagues, pickpocketing from ladies' purses and business men's wallets in restaurants and malls. Malls were good for the pickings, but I've grown to hate the fucking places. But as my morale was wearing thin, I later discovered the wonderful world of gambling.

So, I wasn't a total virgin to the concept of gambling. I used to sneak out to the teacher's parking lot with a bunch of other guys in school and play cards in between the cars. When I hit legal, though, I was reborn. Baptized by the Black Jack dealer himself. I started to learn the trade of just about every gig in a casino and in the underground. Craps, roulette, baccarat, hold'em, and then bets on bare knuckle boxing, horse races, and everything in between that guaranteed my money.

So anyway, while I was skipping from Armpit Town to Armpit Town in the Midwest, I'd caught wind of this festival and a riverside gambling tour in Savannah, just my joy in life. Now, the problem with Georgia for me was that I didn't know exactly if I had a warrant floating over my head in that place or not. Last I'd been there... well, things got a little hairy, I'll just leave it at that. But I knew that there wasn't a whole lot of opportunity for big bucks in Wichita, I'd might as well head over there. I thought I'd never go back to that goddamn hell hole, being that that was where the shit started hitting the fan in little Nicky's life. The entire way there, I kept telling myself to turn the car around, but by the time I'd convinced myself to leave, I was already checking in.

I found some cheap hotel—three stars, probably: gym, swimming pool, continental breakfast, but no chocolate on your pillow. I had nothing to do but try to make a few bucks, so while avoiding the mall, I went out to undermine a few naïve folks. Most of Savannah was filled with tourists and newlyweds—I knew first hand, as I'd been there once as both myself (the shame)—so I went out to trick them into a few bucks. I mostly posed as a tour guide or insurance salesman, which isn't hard to do in a three-thousand dollar suit, apparently. Anyway, I signed myself up for that gambling tour that was supposed to happen the next night, and I was already anticipating the moment when I had some sorry sap's money in my hands.

After the sun was starting to go down, so was business. I decided to take a well deserved break—get back into another familiar element. So I found a bar near my hotel in the downtown district called _Sleazy Joe's._

The name implied everything you needed to know about the place. Five to ten patrons, all between the ages of forty and already dead; an old jukebox in the corner that was stuck on 60's and 70's tunes; little appetizer menus sticking up from condiments baskets on every table, never read but somehow still smeared by ketchup; and a bartender who looked like he'd failed to meet the requirements to join a biker gang. I took a quick look around and decided, yup, this was my element. The first thing I went for was some pool hustling. 'Cause, if it's not blackjack, it's pool for me.

So I chat up this guy with a trucker hat and a windbreaker at least twenty years too old for anyone's liking, and get him into a game of pool. I might've picked him based on the fact that he smelled like he'd taken a shower in a couple of two-sixes of bourbon, and that would probably make it easy to persuade into playing for money. It also probably meant that he'd have shitty aim.

I caught this brunette looking at me from the bar while I played Toothless Tim. Once I caught her staring at us, namely me, I decided to pull some trick shots. So I started with the cue behind my back, then went to jumping the ball over another, and I even had the chance to pull a cut shot from the way the balls lined up. A couple of people in the bar clapped at that one, her included.

Three minutes later, I was fifty bucks richer. "Damn," he slurred, his Georgian accent so thick I could cut it with a steak knife, "you sure do know how to play pool game, son."

"Thanks, pops," I said, taking the money. He held on to his cue and looked at me with a glimmer of hope in his eyes, thinking I'd go for another game, but I thought better of it. One: he probably couldn't afford it; and two: if he could afford it, he'd have some wife at home with a name like Anna May bitchin' at him for eating up their month's welfare check on two games of pool. And, just out of principle, I liked to space my games as a safety net, just so I didn't start anything that I had to finish.

"Maybe later," I told him, and he smiled. One of his bottom front teeth was missing.

"All right, stranger, I'll hold you tew that."

I started wander over to the bar, and slipped onto a stool about three seats away from the cougar. Okay, so it's not fair to call her a cougar, I guess, but I could tell she was older than me. Maybe her early forties or something. But she was dressed for the business; she had a leopard-print v-neck shirt on, a black skirt with mesh stockings and mean knee-high leather boots with heels you could kill with. She was smoking over a dish of roasted almonds, nursing a beer in her other hand. A Keystone Light. I've had better.

She glanced over at me as I checked her out. I thumbed out a five from the pool game and laid it on the table for the bartender when he got close, still watching her. "I'll have what she's having," I said, almost having to choke out the words. I wasn't one for sweet beers. But I thought, hey, the first trail to a lady's tail has to be the same beer she's suckin' on. I figured I might as well try to pick her up; I'd been a lonely boy for the past few weeks, and any sort of glance I got, I was gonna bank on it.

"Make that two," she said, holding up her beer. I glanced over again, and laid down another five. She kept watching me, sipping her beer. I could see globs of her mascara from where I sat.

"Why don't you come have a seat by me." She patted at the stool next to her (fake hot-pink nails, the clicking type) giving me that "I'm gonna eat you up" look. So I sidled over next to her, and the bartender brought us our two beers, popping off the caps on the bar before putting them down. I wanted to gag—I could already taste that foul Georgia beer. "Keep the change," I said as he swiped up my bills. _Since it's actually Bucky Bill's over there_.

"I'm Raleigh," she said, holding out one of her hands. She had a deep, silky voice, and a seductive grin on her face. As a guy making his career off of reading other people, I already knew I was getting laid by that grin.

"Nick," I said, taking her hand and shaking it gently. She finished her first beer then picked up the second, while I started on mine. God, that beer was shit.

"You don't look familiar. Are you just passing through?"

"Sort of. I'm here for the Oktoberfest."

"Mm. Lots of tourists are. But you don't look like a tourist."

"No. Salesman, more like."

She laughed. It was airy, somewhere in between careless and fake. "Well, I'm still surprised you'd come out of your way to visit Georgia, what with the flu scare going 'round an' all."

I scoffed. "Buncha bullshit."

"I think so, too," Raleigh said. "Haven't seen a trace of it myself."

We were halfway through our beers and almost out of another thin, meaningless conversation when she finally dropped the bomb. "So... where are you staying?"

"At the Pomegranate," I said, motioning over my shoulder. "By the river front. Five or so blocks from here."

"Oh," she said, dragging on her cigarette. She let the smoke billow out her mouth. "That sounds pretty far."

The next thing I knew, we were in a less than sanitary bathroom stall in the mens room with my pants pooled around my shoes and her skirt hitched up. I didn't mind screamers, but we were in a fucking public washroom for Chrissakes. Then again, me working her against the stall wall made more than enough ruckus for the both of us, so it didn't matter so much. I'm pretty sure I could've knocked over both stalls. Maybe the entire fucking bar.

She faked it with a shriek (if this were a porno I was watching, I would've shut it off long ago) just as I was finishing up. I buried my head in the dip of her neck, taking in a big whiff of her hair. It smelled like cigarette smoke and too much perfume.

"Oh... God," she sighed, sliding down the wall and unwrapping her legs from around my waist. "What a knockout."

I didn't say anything. She straightened herself out and I bent over to pick up my pants. We stayed cramped right up next to each other, considering the stall wasn't big enough for two people to begin with, and we both panted and shot each other sly grins as we straightened everything out.

"Thanks, Nick," Raleigh said. "I needed that one."

"Likewise."

We went back out into the bar, and I noticed the volume on the jukebox had been cranked up a notch or two with _Achy Breaky Heart_ playing. Everyone was avoiding looking at us with grins on their faces. All but the bartender, that is. I caught him glaring us down, and noticed he was leaning against the bar with a twelve gauge under his fists.

Raleigh slipped her arm through mine. "I think I'll be able to make it back to your hotel room now, if you're willin'."

"Yeah, that might be a good idea."

I winked at the bartender, and he ground his jaws together. As we got to the door, someone started to clap, and then everyone gave us a round of applause.

"Let's stop by the pharmacy," she said, a sly grin on her face. I knew my luck that night was gonna fly high like the firecrackers going off at the waterfront that night.

* * *

We were walking arm in arm down the sidewalk from the pharmacy to the hotel. She held the bag of condoms in her free hand, and it rustled every time she stumbled. Most of the time she'd bump into me, shoving her rack into my arm while giggling over being so apparently wasted. I grinned a couple of times as she set herself walking again, but I was starting to get pretty annoyed. Acting more drunk than you are just means you're more ashamed to be doing what you're doing. At least I knew how much of a scumbag I was to be sleeping around with some woman I'd just met who I could care less about and had enough balls to live with it. Then again, she had pretty good boobs for being over the hill, so it wasn't so bad.

When we got closer to the hotel, we saw this guy stumbling down the street like he had one or five too many beers. Being the obnoxious ass that I am, I felt it was my personal duty to make some sort of snide remark.

"Hey," I called, "you should lay off the sauce, pal."

All of the sudden his head snaps up, and he changes from stumbling drunk to crazy mugger. It was dark out, but I could see a gleam in his eyes, like he was some sort of wild dog. Then he charged us.

Raleigh shrieked, and I braced myself, a little caught off guard. "The hell?" I yelled, just as he collided with me. I turned and pushed him to the side, accidentally throwing him into my date.

It looked like he was mauling the lady; he was snarling or something, and as he stumbled back with her, he puked down her front. So I grabbed him by the back of his jacket, and threw him to the ground. He tumbled a bit, then fell on his back. He stayed like that, breathing heavy, struggling weakly with himself to get back up.

"What's your goddamn problem, pal?" I snapped, then I kicked him in the ribs. He barely moved or made a noise. I went to do it again, but then I stopped myself.

"Nick, let's just go," Raleigh said, tugging at my arm. I stared down at the guy, suddenly just a little creeped out. His skin was ashy, and even though I didn't get his face or anything, he was bleeding from his mouth and nose, his eyes—even his fucking ears were letting out. Every time he took in air it was wheezy, and his eyes were rolling around in his head like shaken-up eight balls. "Please," she whined, and then I let her drag me away.

"God, I think he scratched me or somethin'," she mumbled as we crossed the street, rubbing at her neck. The puke was gleaming in the lamplight, and I was surprised she wasn't worried about that. The entire way back, though, she was rubbing at her neck like it was a mosquito bite.

If I knew what I knew now, I would've took her straight to a hospital and left her there. But being that I was a meandering, self-involved douche bag, I didn't ever bank any time into settling down and actually getting to know a place or anyone in it, or about the important current events, like an epidemic. I'd heard bits and pieces of this virus that had been spreading like wildfire from New York southwards, but I didn't give more than a rat's ass because I was cruising around Texas at the time. You heard yuppies complaining about some illness or other all the time in the goddamn States—Anthrax, mad cow, swine flu—AIDS, even—I could care less about any of it. I never got bothered by that shit. I figured this was just another scare, this "flu" or whatever the fuck they wanted to call it. I caught a glimpse or two of the infamous CEDA trucks and all these people huddled together like sheep around it, but that's as far as it went for me. When I actually crossed the border into Georgia, I'd forgotten all about the scare, even though I'd entered Bad Territory, and there had to be at least one sick person on every street corner.

Back on track: Raleigh didn't want to go to a hospital or anything—she just wanted a shower. I didn't blame her; she kind of reeked all the way back to the hotel. The strange thing is, girls like her would bitch and moan to the ends of the earth about how disgusting that drunk guy was, but she was all quiet about it. She didn't say a peep about that asshole on the street. If anything, I'd say she was shitting her pants. After I got a close-up of that guy, I was, too.

I lounged out across the bed while Raleigh stripped off her clothes and started a shower. "God, I liked those clothes. Now I'm gonna hafta throw them out."

"I'll get room service to clean them up," I said.

"Don't bother. Puke never really comes outta clothes."

"Nor does jizz," I whispered to myself, smiling and plunking down on the bed.

I kicked my shoes off and put my hands behind my head, waiting for her to finish up. Just as I was getting excited, I passed out.

* * *

I woke up the next morning to the sound of the shower running; the door to the bathroom was open, and the air was pretty thick with steam. The blinds were closed, but they were the vertical slanty-type, and beams of daylight cracked out onto my face. I groaned a little, rubbing my eyes and yawning. Then I was consciously aware of the shower running, and knew something was off.

I looked at the sheets; they hadn't been slept in at all. Either she spent the entire night in the shower, or she just up and left without turning anything off. I sat up in bed, stretching and trying to collect myself.

From where I was sitting, I could still see her clothes piled on the floor. "Hey, you there?" I finally asked, unable to actually remember her name. No answer.

I got up out of the bed, then walked into the bathroom. The curtain was drawn halfway, and I could see a bit of blood smeared against the wall.

"What the hell?" I groaned, getting closer. "Hey, do you need an ambulance or something?"

The steam was like a goddamn fog in there. I got the feeling I was in a horror film, like _Psycho_ or something. Except I got the distinct impression the bad guy was behind the shower curtain in my situation.

"I don't feel so good," she whispered when I got close to the curtain. Instead of drawing it back, I peeked around the corner. I could see her sitting in the bathtub, bent over herself. Her skin was super pale, and the water flowing down the drain was a constant stream of pale red.

"Fuck," I muttered, and she looked over her shoulder at me. Her face was slack and dark blood streaked from her ears, her eyes, her nose, her mouth...

"I think I'm sick."

I stared at her dumbly, paralyzed. I was fucking scared shitless. "Want me to call someone?"

Then her head wrenched forward and she puked into her lap. It came out as a spray of thick, black blood.

I nearly tripped over my own feet scrambling back from the tub. I don't know why it scared me so much, but when she puked, I got the sudden feeling of just being _fucked_. I fell back against the bathroom door, slamming it hard against the wall, then cussed my way over to the phone. I picked up the receiver, waiting for the front desk to answer.

"Good morning, Pomegranate Front Desk, how may I help you?"

"Someone's sick—in my room," I said, stumbling over my own words. "I think she's got that virus."

There was a hesitation. A huge hesitation. "Which room are you staying in, sir?"

"Fuck if I kn—408, it's 408."

I could hear her typing. "Mr. Gerald Banks?"

That was the name on the credit card I'd stolen the day before. "Yeah, that's me."

"Someone will be up shortly." Then she hung up. What the fuck, huh? "Someone" will be up "shortly." Like that fuckin' tells me anything. What was I supposed to do? I slammed the phone down, swearing some more. I could still hear her puking her guts out. She was hacking and sobbing at the same time, and I got this increasing sense of dread, like I didn't want to be in that room anymore.

So I pulled on my shoes and grabbed my wallet (or Gerald's wallet, more like) and left the room. I was walking quickly down the hallway, shoving my hands in my pockets, making sure I had everything on me as I ditched her in the room. At least I'd called for help, right? I wasn't a complete heartless fucker. At least, that's what I want to keep telling myself.

Just as I punched the call button to the elevator and stepped in, the door to the stairs burst open, and four or five guys in these huge CEDA suits came running up the hall towards my room.

I pressed the button to the lobby, my hands shaking, trying to figure out just what the hell was going on and why it had Nick shaking in his shoes.


	2. Ellis

_Note: I do not own VALVe or any of its affiliates. Consider this a disclaimer to the characters/themes/what have you presented in this story._

**2: Ellis**

My name's Ellis. I worked an' ran an auto garage in town with my buddies, and sometimes we played gigs there. I played bass. My buddy Dave was on vocals. Keith wan't in the band, on account of his lack of musical talent, but he'd come out all the time to watch us play. I remember this one time he tried to set up some flashy flamethrower stuff in our garage—you know, throw a show, or whatever—but it backfired on him. We were able to put out the flames before he toasted, but he got third degree burns over ninety percent of his body a couple months or so later. Keith an' me, we were always gettin into stuff we shouldn'ta been. Made for great stories, though.

Oh, yeah, about me: I'm a homegrown Georgia boy, lived here in Savannah all my life. When I was sixteen I started workin on cars, an' then I started a towin business with Pappy's old savins, draggin people's scrap to my shop for a fee. I used the spare parts I found to fix other folks' cars, and I did all right by me. On weekends I always hung out with my buddies Keith n' Dave, and we usually ended up drinkin ourselves silly. Sundays I went to Mom's for dinner—she made the best goddamn pot roast and collard greens, I swear to God—but besides all that, I usually kept to myself. I was as humble as they come. Well, except for that one time me an' Dave went to Atlanta and saw those guys dancin for money. I kinda went nuts then. But I can't tell you that story; I haven't even told my new friends yet.

Oh, right! So, around mid October or so, the Freaky Flu hit Savannah, and in less than forty-eight hours, the entire city was screwed. That's when I met my new friends—Rochelle, Coach, and Nick. Well, Nick's only my friend some of the time. Anyway, let me fill you in on the proper story, bein as Nick has the memory of a goldfish or an elephant or some such critter.

It was back sometime in September when news started to get out about a real nasty flu spreadin around Maine, Vermont, all the way across New York and Pennsylvania. Folks was pissin their drawers over it! I didn' have cable or nothin, an' I didn' read the papers too much, but I heard about this outfit called CEDA who were tryin to figure out the disease an' provide clinics an' evacuation centers for people. I thought they was all overreactin with the evacuation; I mean, it was just a _flu_. Not like it was plague or nothin. I mean, that's what I got out of it at first.

A couple weeks passed, and the rumors got worse. People were sayin stuff about everyone dyin in New York, and how it was a battle zone. Apparently Pennsylvania was succumbin to the same fate when highway 95 northbound was blocked. CEDA was tryin to keep out the infection by keepin everyone out of Georgia. 'Course, what they was tryin to do was like catchin an aeroplane with a butterfly net, but nobody knew that then.

Just as the roadblocks were bein set up, a whole bunch of warnins and recommendations were bein mailed out to everybody by the state. We got this doodad slip of paper that we were supposed to keep with other medical records on our person when we was in public. Along with that, there were these things that told us how to construct our own personal bunker, or "Safe Rooms," should the flu get into our area. Mom got into it, and made her own little bunker with lots of canned food an' water. I told her it looked like a paintball fort. She was tryin to get me to believe this flu was just as bad as they said it was, that it was deadly. She said it was God's way of tellin us he was right pissed. I took it a little more seriously then, but I still didn't care for it near as much as everyone else did.

Even after all that, the zombies still found their way into Georgia, an' after a few people were reported sick on—oh, I dunno, the thirteenth, fourteenth—CEDA near damn exploded.

Well, they didn't explode. What I mean ta say is that all of the sudden these evac centers started openin up _everywhere _in town, along with all these flyers pasted on every street corner, providin information on how to conduct your business out of doors. Stuff like, "Wash your hands," or "Report the sick," right up to "Barricade your homes." They even outlawed fuckin firearms, and I woulda been right pissed about that one if I'd heard it before the shit hit the fan. Well, actually, I woulda been confused. Why would firearms be illegalized in the midst of a bad flu outbreak?

I found out everythin first hand when CEDA started hoardin people into those evac centers. I was tryin to help out some poor fella when CEDA swooped in and practically put a flea collar round my neck. While I was tryin to figure out why they had their panties bunched into so many knots over a flu, Savannah was startin to taste the shit storm that was the "Green Flu" (I still refuse to call it that. I like Freaky Flu much better).

* * *

It was a Wednesday, so I was workin the shop. But business was _slow_. I sent Dave n' Keith home on account of the time we was wastin. The last couple days things were startin to trickle down, but after this mornin, nobody wanted to do business with Cars-'n'-Scrap. They all piled into the grocery store next door to us, the Save 4 Less. I was wonderin on how busy they musta been, what with all those folks scramblin to buy their supplies because of the bad flu goin round, like they was preparin for the Great Flood or somethin. I still thought they was runnin around like chickens with their heads cut off. Well, I think a chicken has every right to run around if it's lost its head. But no folks do over a flu.

I was sittin in my tow truck, sippin on a nice Keystone Light, and I was just about to close shop when I caught sight of a car barrelin through the parkin lot towards my garage. I put down my beer after one lasst sip before jumpin off the bed and movin up to the front to meet the fella. He was drivin like a maniac, though, so I made sure to steer clear of open spaces where he might run me over like a toad.

His car was dir-ty. Not to mention scratched up to all hell, like he'd driven through a hundred miles of cacti. He stopped just before the garage and put it in park, staggerin out of the door. He looked drunk or somethin like that.

"Hi there, stranger," I said, but my normal, chipper, howd'ya-do sing-song was all muddled. He looked a couple shades too green to be healthy. Well, not really green, but you know what I mean. Not to mention, he looked a few hundred pounds too heavy to be healthy, but it wasn't like he was fat. More like he was super bloated or somethin, like he was a muffin with too much bakin soda in 'im.

He burped, but he tried to cover it up. "Can I use your phone?" he asked. He didn' have a local accent, more like a Midwestern one. I checked his plate: Minneapolis.

"Well, sure," I said, motioning over my shoulder. "Just back here by the washrooms. You got any car trouble?"

I was leadin him to the back of the shop. He was stumblin behind me. "No, I just might need some gas. Would you happen to—" he burped again, "—have any?"

I looked at 'im funny. "No, you'd have to go a couple stores down for that. Sir, do you need to upchuck or somethin?"

He stopped and rested on the hood of my truck. "Maybe," he said after a couple seconds. He was wheezin and sweatin a lot. I could see his neck start to swell up like a blow fish.

"Aw, hell, mister, do you got that flu everyone's been fussin about?" I asked, turnin back to him and standin beside him.

He looked up at me with what looked like too much effort on his part. "No," he said, but I could see he was in denial.

"Shucks, mister, don' worry about it. I know havin the flu sucks. This one time, back in third grade, me an' my friend Keith got the flu at the same time, but our moms didn't believe us. Then, in class, we threw up at the same time! My puke hit the floor, but Keith spluttered all over himself. Vomit over ninety percent of his body—"

I thought that maybe I'd made the guy sick with my story, 'cause he bent over and vomited all over the garage floor. I mean _vomited_. It came out like a water bazooka an splashed all over the goddamn place. Some of it splattered on my legs, an' I jumped back from him.

"Ah! Jesus, man!" I shouted, tryin to shake my legs off. The stuff _stank_, like he'd swallowed a bucket of rotten Burger Tank burgers, like... like a skunk died in a diaper factory.

"Please," he said, wheezin harder and burpin, "please don't report me. Let me call my wife."

"Report you?" I said, shakin my legs. "Aw, man, don't sweat it, you just puked on me. I can clean my pants, no problem. I ain't gonna call the cops on you!"

"Not the police," he said, "CEDA."

I stared at him. "Oh! You mean those guys in space suits."

"Hazmat suits," he corrected. "They released flyers today. To report the sick."

"Oh," I said, frowning. He tried to stand up straight, but he burped real loud and bent over again, ready to puke some more. I stepped back another foot or two.

"Hey, mister, I've got some Pepto Bismol in the bathroom for you if you want. You go ahead an' call your wife, an' I'll get your medicine. Oh, just dial 9 first."

So I went to the restroom, leavin him restin on my truck, watchin him as I left. I'd spent the past couple weeks ignorin everythin reported about the flu, so I didn' actually know much about this sick guy in my garage. I watched him try to make his way behind me towards the phone, but he looked like he'd explode at any minute.

I opened the medicine cabinet and fished around for the Pepto Bismol. I had a lot more mouthwash and liquor flasks than medicine in there, it seemed. I grabbed the bottle, then turned the corner to head back towards the big guy.

"Marion," I heard him say. It was the saddest sound I ever heard a man make, an' it made me stop in my tracks. "No... I'm not okay, honey."

I suddenly felt like I was intrudin', even it bein my own garage. I hung back in the bathroom, not willin to come out and face 'im when he was havin a heart to heart with some lady over the phone. For some reason, he sounded sadder than a person should with a flu. Like it was gonna be his last phone call.

"I'm in Georgia right now. No, I made it just before the road blocks were established. I couldn't stay in South Carolina anymore, its... its been overrun, sweetheart." I could almost hear the lady's voice on the other end, wailin and shoutin. "I... I don't think I will make it home, Marion. I caught it. I caught the Green Flu."

I'd been goin on just thinkin it was some bad bug everyone was goin ape shit over, but hearin this guy talk (hell, _seein_ the state of the guy) an' piecin together those messages that'd been circulatin through town. I think that's when it finally clicked that this wan't no flu bug. Not really.

The man was sobbin and burpin at the same time. I felt pretty sad by it all, too. "Marion, I want you to take the kids and get out of Minnesota. Go to Canada, or Mexico. Just get away from here. This—this is worse than they say."

I peeked over the corner to see him. The swell of his neck turned into a full blown bubble, like a giant waterballoon. His veins were startin to stand out, too: they was blacker than bile under his skin, and he shined under the fluorescent light like he'd been dipped in a pool of Vaseline.

"I have to go," the poor guy said, then lifted his arm weakly to hang up the phone. He stood there, leanin against the wall, still cryin and burpin. He made a soft moaning noise, and that's when I realized I was supposed to be givin him medicine.

"Uh, here's your Pepto," I said, comin around the corner an' holdin it out to 'im.

He looked over at me. "That won't help," he said, his mouth soundin like it was full of marbles. Then he stood up and started to leave the shop.

"Hey, wait a minute," I said, goin after him as he turned to waddle out of the garage. "Don't you think you should get some help, first? If you're so sick?"

"No," he said, but I got the impression he wasn't talkin to me. He bent over a little, groanin loud like an animal, then shouted: "Leave me alone!"

He ran for his car, and I stepped towards the middle of the garage—avoidin the puddle of puke, o'course—and watched him plop into his car. As he shut the door, I waited for the engine to start, but it never did. I could hear him burpin from where I stood. Then, his entire windshield turned green as he puked again.

"Oh, shit," I muttered, droppin the Pepto and headin for the phone. I picked it up, and not sure who to call, I dialed 9-1-1.

The operator picked up almost immediately, askin what my emergency was an all that shit. "Uh, well, I dunno about emergency—well, yeah, it's kinda an emergency."

"Sir, if you don't have probable cause for using the emergency line, I will have to disconnect the call."

"Sorry. Uh, I have this guy here who's real sick. I think he has that flu bug that's been goin round. It's just that he's pukin a lot, and he's tryin to drive, but I don't think he's in any condition to—"

"What is your location, sir?"

"Oh, uh, Cars-'n'-Scrap. On Chatham Parkway."

"A dispatch will be sent shortly sir. Please keep the infected individual from leaving the premises to the best of your ability, and maintain a healthy state of mind."

"Wha? What in the hell you talkin 'bout?" But she'd hung up by then, leavin me wonderin what a "healthy state of mind" was and why exactly I was to maintain it.

I went out to the stranger's car, coverin my nose when the smell of his puke started to get stronger. I stepped up to the driver's side. That window was covered in green, too.

I knocked on the window just as I started to hear a parade of sirens in the distance. "Sir?" I said, speakin loud so he might hear me. "I called an ambulance. Uh, I think. Someone'll be here soon to fix you up, 'kay?"

Suddenly the window cracked and I heard him growl behind the glass. I jumped back a little, seein him smoosh his face into the glass and pound it, green puke oozin everywhere. "Christ," I muttered. Then I saw the cars and trucks comin up from down the road.

There were a lotta police cars, but behind those had to be three or four trucks haulin these white, green an' gold trailers. I didn't need to see 'em up close to know that those were CEDA trailers. Mom called them the DEAD trailers, an' she said it was 'cause that was what they was called, and that was what you were once those trailers moved in.

"Hooo... _shit_," I whispered, then fled from the guys car back into the garage, headin right for my counter.

"I knew I shoulda closed earlier," I muttered to myself, pullin my shotgun and shells from under the till. I took it to the bathroom—I had a loose board in the wall, and I could hide things in the hollow between the insulation. I usually did this with booze when Mom stopped over to the garage to check up on me—she usually did a booze run to make sure I wasn' drinkin on the job—an' I shoved the gun and ammo in there. 'Cause I knew if the police _and_ CEDA were comin, it wouldn't be likely I'd be able to keep that gun for long if I had it naked as day under my counter.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, those cop cars damn near surrounded my garage, and the trailers were drivin into the lot. I heard people start screamin to each other at the Save 4 Less next door, and people started to scatter. "CEDA!" "There's an infected here!" "RUN!"

The cop cars started to scatter, headin for the exits to all the parkin lot. People were scramblin to their cars, hopin they'd be able to make their escape in time, but the cops were already breakin out the police lines and spread out along the curbs just before the roads. One of the CEDA trailers stopped next to the stranger's car, and guys in yellow and green space—hazmat suits jumped out an' surrounded it. They clamped these magnet doodads on the door, an' I realized that instead of gettin the guy out of the car, they was lockin him _in._

"Holy _shit_," I whispered, but it wasn't quiet enough. Those guys in the suits turned towards me, and some of them shouted. Their voices sounded like they were comin through walkie-talkies, reminding me all over again that I thought they was space suits. And I was on an alien planet now.

They rushed toward me, one guy with a spray can, somethin or other. I held my hands up, 'cause I didn' know how else to keep them from pouncin me or whatever it was they was plannin on doin. When the guy with the can got close, he hosed me.

"AH! What the hell!" I shouted, dancin back from him an' tryin to cover my face. Then two guys were at my sides, draggin me towards the CEDA trailer.

"Hey, man! What the hell?" I shouted, squirmin in their arms. "I ain't sick! Gitoff!"

They didn' answer me, an when we got to the door of the trailer, they shoved me inside. The door shut behind me, an' everythin went dark.


	3. Rochelle

_Note: I do not own VALVe or any of its affiliates. Consider this a disclaimer to the characters/themes/what have you presented in this story._

_Thanks for your comments. If you have anything to suggest or if you see a discrepancy in some details or facts, don't be afraid to point that out, too. Also, sorry this took so long, but Rochelle is a knot harder to untie than you'd think._

**3: Rochelle**

Back in High school, I used to babysit my younger cousin everyday after classes until her parents got home, and every afternoon she would watch _The Magic School Bus _religiously, even if it was a re-run. And in every episode, the most reserved kid with a bad rep and perpetually cold feet would always say, "I knew I should've stayed home today."

I'd heard rumors about the Green Flu (otherwise known as the Eastern Eater, or to some at the news station, Karma) for weeks. New York was plagued with it like they were plagued with cockroaches and rats. Pennsylvania moaned and groaned over being sneezed on by their neighbors, and soon the flu was an issue there, too. But, being that I worked in a media center, I assumed that all the rumors I'd been hearing (high fatality rates, unusual behavior, gross side-effects and mutilations) were just rumors; you learned to report whatever sounded good, whether it was truth or not, and boy, was it easy to separate truth and rumor. That, and I could really give two shits about what was happening in New York, let alone Pennsylvania.

When my boss called me a week and a half ago to give me a semi-promotion to cover the story on the first evac center in Savannah, Georgia, all those rumors were farts in the wind.

"What do you mean, they're all 'out of commission'?" I said, holding the phone between my cheek and shoulder as I took another bite of cereal. I was getting tired of cereal by then. You'd think working for a news station would get you more than minimum wage, but when you're a lowly associate producer, the only thing you can afford to buy is a roof and several boxes of cereal to eat.

"I mean _they're all out of commission_. Called in sick."

"What, everyone?"

"Everyone. I'm trying to cover half of their jobs."

"So, what, do I get a bonus for this?" My mouth was half-full of cereal, but at this point, I didn't care about manners. No more Mister Nice Girl. "You know what, Mr. Krimpton? No. You can do your own goddamn intern work. I'm not going to come in on my day off just to fetch your coffee and forge your signature on all the overdue paperwork for pennies an hour."

At this point I started marching around my living room, which was also my bedroom, and coincidentally my dining room, jabbing my spoon in the air. "I've slaved myself away for your useless newscast—hell, even the makeup crew bossed me around—and I've _had it. _I QUIT!"

The moment the words flew out of my mouth, I stopped dead by my futon. I couldn't believe I said it. I'd grown up class geek, I'd been pushed around, and I always stayed polite, quiet, introverted, staying passive aggressive all the way through college, through my career. I would always grumble miserably to myself, but when it came to facing up to Jerry, or anybody on the production crew, I stayed as docile as a lamb.

Hell, I didn't even want to quit. I _needed_ this job. Like, no-more-cereal needed it.

"I..." I stuttered, letting the spoon drop to the floor. An apology was bound to fly out my mouth at any second. Of course I'll come in to work Mr. Krimpton, just give me ten minutes and I'll be there. Do you want a caramel macchiato today, or a vanilla bean latte? But I didn't say anything. The line was dead silent for what felt like a solid thirty seconds before I heard Jerry sigh on the other end of the line.

"You can't quit. Not this weekend. Because I'm promoting you to newscast director."

My jaw fell open, and I closed it the moment I remembered I still had cereal in there. "What happened to Ursula?" I said, instead of: "About time, you ungrateful douche."

"Ursula's sick. Haven't you been listening to me? Jesus."

"Sor—I mean... _newscast director_?"

"Yes." His voice was getting short.

"Oh my God," I said with a laugh, then pulled the phone away from my ear and cheered in the room.

"Mr. Krimpton, that's _great_! I can't believe this!" Of course, my mind suddenly chose to forget that it wasn't the flu any of those people had, but the Green Flu. The one that was _rumored_ to be killing people by the handfuls. This was the sickness that apparently had New York on its knees and Pennsylvania begging for mercy. I chose to ignore all that, because everything I'd been hoping for since I was accepted into college was finally being delivered on a silver platter to my feet.

"Yeah, well," he said, clearing his throat, "turns out I need you to go with Jacob and Morgan down to Georgia, do a story on the evacuation station that's opened up. I need you to leave in the hour."

"Absolutely!" I said, my elation still speaking for me, my brain still blocking out everything it didn't want to know. One, it was pretty damn dangerous, and two, it was in _Savannah_: the twelve hour drive to hell.

"Right. Well. Meet at the station; you three are taking a van."

"Okay, Jerry, okay!" By then he'd already hung up the phone, so I tossed mine onto the couch and put my cereal down to do another victory cheer. I realized, though, that the first time I'd cheered, I spilled milk and chunks of cornflakes all over my shirt and jeans.

"Oh... shit," I muttered, but I was still grinning like an idiot. I was newscast director. _Newscast director_.

I hadn't done my laundry in a week, and as a result, I just had my pink Depeche Mode shirt and the skinny jeans I hadn't worn in two years lingering in my closet/study. Even though they were my least favorite clothes, I threw them on with a smile on my face. After I jumped into my boots, I fled out the door, stuffing my toothbrush in my bag and throwing my coat over my shoulders. I could've walked on water and choreographed a river dance at that point.

I met up with the others at the station, and Jerry gave us visitor passes to the evac center, along with the keys to a van, a company credit card and cellphone, and some info sheets. "Study 'em on your way in," he'd said. He paused in front of me as I flipped through them, and I glanced up when he didn't leave after a moment. "Yeah, Mr. Krimpton?"

When I met his eyes, he looked away, muttering, "That's all," then left the room.

The other two weren't nearly as excited as I was; both of them had puffy, pink-rimmed eyes, and they kept yawning over their coffees constantly. Morgan kept groaning: "I'm not even supposed to be here today."

I hopped into the van to take the first shift driving, being that I was the most awake and hyperactive. "All right, ladies and gentlemen," I said, twisting the ignition and watching the hula girl on the dashboard dance, "let's get this party started!"

Twenty minutes into the car ride, the silence started to get stifling. Jacob leaned his head against the window, and Morgan rifled through her makeup bag, sniffling a mile a minute. "God, were the hell is my concealer? _Where the fuck is it?_"

I glanced at her through the rear-view mirror, swallowing my groan. She'd been complaining about almost every cosmetic in her collection, saying it was missing, or being "a piece of shit" or "stupid." Morgan had to be the most watered-down person I knew with an inflated ego. Her skills in reading off a speech that someone else had written for her were superb, and the ability for her appearance to spring into radiance with a dab of a $55 chemical was astonishing. Short version, she was good at being a mindless puppet for the camera, and I hated her.

In fact, I hated a lot of people pretty easily. I never had any true friends in grade school; I hated the crassness of my class all the way through college, cringing every time they dished out a student cliché (I deserve an A, end all poverty, socialism is evil); I hated my landlady, my coworkers, my boss, and everyone in between.

Okay, I suppose "hate" is a strong word, but it better conveys the boiling heat I feel when someone speaks and a pile of bullshit tumbles from their mouth like a steaming pile of stupidity.

"Rochelle, do you have any eyeliner in your bag?" she grumbled, reaching for my purse sitting between me and Jacob.

"Don't touch my bag," I said haughtily. "I don't have anything in there for you."

"Fine. Jeez." Under her breath, she muttered, "Bitch."

"Oh my God," Jacob sighed, running his hands through his shoulder-length black hair. "It's only been twenty minutes. Twenty minutes."

And, even though Jacob reflected the kind of sentiments I had for other people (ex. inflamed hatred), him moaning and bitching about our griping and growling made me feel just as irritated towards him.

I felt a snarky comment rising in my throat, but those kinds of comments never got past my gates. Even though I was a pretty short-tempered person, I rarely let it show. It wasn't because of lack of trying; I just attributed it to the fact that I was never really brave enough to give people a piece of my mind, save for a few rare instances in my life (like my rage bubble exploding on Jerry just that very morning, and a mascot at Disneyland who looked at me funny back when I was seven). So, instead of exploding on my coworkers only twenty minutes into our drive, I let a tight smile stretch across my face as I punched the _on_ button to the radio. All that came out was static.

I fiddled with the tuner, flashing my eyes between the freeway and the radio, but as the dial worked it's way from 87.1 to 106.5, all we got was fuzz.

"Must be the antenna," I concluded, switching to the tape player. Luckily for us, there was something in there, and it started playing.

_Though it's cold and lonely in the deep dark night_

_I can see paradise by the dashboard light..._

"Hey, Meatloaf," I said, smiling at Jacob, who still looked as lively as a corpse. "Not bad, huh?"

By the time we crossed into West Virginia, we'd listened to the tape three times over. Even though it was filling the not-so unwelcome silence between the three of us, I was starting to get tired of hearing the Bat get out of Hell so many times, so I turned it off for a rest. We would've changed the tape, except the fact that it was permanently stuck inside.

Morgan gave a wet sneeze and then shivered, sounding something like a lame dog. "Hey, Rochelle, can I borrow your jacket? I'm getting kind of cold."

I handed her my jacket, which was resting on the armrest between me and Jacob. She snatched it from me, muttered a thanks, then wrapped it around herself. "I just feel like my bones are ice."

"Sounds like you're coming down with something," Jacob said, looking over his shoulder at her. "Maybe you should pop some Ibuprofen and take a nap before we get there."

"Rochelle, do you have any Ibuprofen?"

"No."

"Can we stop once we get to Charleston? I'm kind of hungry, too."

"Anything else?" I snapped.

"Hey, piss off, okay, it was just a question."

If I listened closely, I bet I could've heard my rage bubble expanding. But I tried to calm my nerves and give her a little sympathy."Yeah. We'll stop there for some lunch and a potty break. How's that?"

We passed through Charleston and kept heading south, not even half of the way there. Jacob took the wheel after we stopped in at a Burger Tank, and I took to flipping through the package Jerry gave us. I didn't read any of it, because I had a weak stomach for driving and reading, and it didn't make odds better that I'd read it successfully with a stomach full of grease and fat.

The rest of the trip was uneventful, save for Morgan making us pull over a couple of times to puke on the side of the road. She said she'd never been so motion sick before, and she didn't know where to attribute it to. She resorted to trying to sleep the rest of the trip, shivering underneath mine and Jacob's the entire way. I looked to check up on her when we were three hours from Savannah, only to find her in cold sweats with an even more pale complexion than before.

"You sure you'll be able to go in front of the camera tonight?" I asked, talking over the music that we'd turned on again for the umpteenth time.

"Nothing a little... makeup won't fix," she said in a sigh.

"Where'd you catch the cold?" I said, genuinely concerned for her health and what it would do for my story.

"My boyfriend," she said with a moan, digging herself deeper under the coats. "He came home late last night feeling like shit and trying to cuddle up to me to keep warm. Bastard made me ill."

"So you're here to pass on the favour," Jacob stated, smiling to himself like he was such a clever smartass.

I could almost hear her roll her eyes. "Just let me sleep."

So Jacob and I chatted on the way to the evac center quietly, being sure not to wake her highness. Okay, so that's not fair—she wasn't feeling all that hot, and she could've used a little R & R. But even if she wasn't sick, she'd still be a little whiny bitch. After Jacob took the last driving shift, I started singing along mindlessly with Meatloaf.

_And all the gods come down here just to sing for me_

_And the melodies gonna make me fly_

_Without pain_

_Without fear_

_Give me all of your dreams_

_And let me go along on your way..._

"...I've got a taste of trash... I'm gonna let it slip away..."

"Hey, you're ruining it," Jacob said.

"Heaven can wait... stick it where the sun don't shine..."

By the time we drove into Savannah's city limits, I'd never hated Meatloaf more. But when we drove past the line up and up to the front of the evac center, I forgot all about Meatloaf, and I felt more excited than a rich fat kid in a candy shop. My first job looked rich with context and story, and I could hardly wait to dive in and roll around in it like a pig bathes in mud.

"Look at that," Jacob said, marveling at the line of parked cars filled with families. Sedans, compacts, station wagons, pickup trucks, some new, some looking as if the wheels were about to rust off the axles, things that hadn't been driven in years. It had stretched for at least two miles back, each packed with suitcases, some overflowing with junk that people obviously thought they couldn't live without. Civilians amassed everywhere; most were lined along a chain-link fence that'd been set up by state police to keep them out. As we drove past the fence, people were branding signs at us, like "CEDA IS NOT YOUR FRIEND," and "GOD'S WRATH HAS FALLEN."

"Oh, Jesus," Jacob said, watching all the people. "I was hoping there wouldn't be any fire and brimstone freaks here, but I suppose I couldn't expect anything less."

"Of course," I said. "There'd be religious protests at a racecar derby saying it was Satan's sport. Maybe we can get a shot of them later, might make for good atmosphere in the story."

Jacob put the van in park near the front next to all the other news vans, then we hopped out. Morgan stayed resting in the back. I stretched my arms and felt my back pop, sighing as I let myself fall limp again. Twelve hours in one van was like Chinese water torture, except less water drops and more of "I need to puke again, pull over."

"You're the reporters? From Ohio?"

I turned to see a guy in a hazmat suit standing in front of me. The thick yellow rubber was a little intimidating; he looked like a Sasquatch, and he gave off the vibe that he was superior, an Untouchable, and we were already dead meat because we didn't have the same suit he had. I managed a crooked smile—a mix of my elation and my nervousness—and nodded.

"_Eyewitness 10 News_," I said, motioning to the print on the side of the van. "That's us."

"I need to see your guest passes, please," he said. I opened the passenger door and opened the glove compartment, pulling out the laminated cards. I handed them to him, and he glanced them over, giving a quick nod from behind his Plexiglas mask. "All right, just keep these on you at all times. Whenever you're ready to enter the facility, let us know."

"Got it," I said, slipping mine into my pocket. I handed one to Jacob, and then started helping Jacob unload the van. Morgan still lay on the back seat, sighing out her breaths. She still looked worse for wear, and instead of worrying about her, I felt a twinge of annoyance.

"Should've told Jerry you were sick before you came all the way to Nowhere, USA," I grumbled, shaking her shoulder. "Hey, Morgan, you gonna be good to start reporting?"

"Yuh. Jus' gimmie a few minuhs..."

"Okay," I sighed, then turned to see Jacob handing me my sheets. I couldn't read them all drive, and even when we made pit stops, I found it hard to focus on the page without upchucking my burgers and fries. I plucked them from his hands with a smile on my face. "Awww, you just know what I need, don't you?"

"I bet you say that to all the boys," he said, grinning up at me.

My smile cracked. "Jacob, if you quote any more of that Meatloaf album, I will—"

"Have you guys seen my makeup kit?" Morgan interrupted, slurring her speech. We looked at her, seeing her eyes roll around in her head. She moaned low again, then shifted to the side.

"Well," Jacob said, "how charismatic are you on camera?"

"I'm hoping I'm pretty damn good."

Before I even read the first line of the package, the cell phone Jerry gave me went off. I plucked it from my belt and checked the caller ID, and sure enough, Jerry was phoning to check up on us. I blew out a breath like a steam whistle, then flipped open the receiver. "Hey, Mr. Krimpton—"

"Rochelle, are you at the evac station yet?"

"Yeah, Mr. Krimpton, we just got here."

"Just stick with Jacob," he said, but his voice was watery. He coughed funny and sighed, like he had something to say but couldn't force himself to say it. "Uh... have you looked over the package yet?"

"It's in my hand right now, just about to read it," I said, leaning up against the van. "I get motion sick easily, so I didn't look it over sooner. Listen, Jerry, Morgan's not feeling too hot, so..."

_1. Introductory to evacuation center entrance, Morgan, foreground; entrance, background: pan shot—Savannah, Georgia: the first city of the state to be hit by the infamous Green Flu, which has spread across the Eastern seaboard in a matter of weeks. The following is an exploration of the evacuation center for your edification and safety. If you have small children in the room, it is advised you ask them to step out._

"Rochelle... listen..." he stammered, doing his funny cough again. He went silent for a moment, humming to himself.

"Jerry?"

_2. Interview: CEDA medic in infirmary tent: foreground, subject; background, infected individual._

"Rochelle, I want to apologize."

Jacob hauled the camera onto his shoulder and switched it on, turning to Morgan who was still stretched out across the seat. "Hey, baby, you come here often?" he joked, guffawing to himself as she continued to mutter incoherently in her sleep.

"What do you mean?" I asked Jerry, looking down the list again.

_a) Q: How do you treat the infected?_

"I mean I need to apologize for what I've put you through."

I smiled a little, giving a short laugh. "You mean all the bitch work you made me do? It's nothing, Jerry. Even though I'm only here because I was your last resort, I'll take pride in knowing you at least considered me as any resort to begin with."

Jacob turned the camera toward me, giving the universal sign for "How long?" I held up three fingers, assuming three minutes was how long it would take for Jerry to stop being so sentimental and actually let me do my job.

"No, Rochelle," he said solemnly, "for knowingly throwing you into the lion's den."

_b) Q: How do you deal with a hostile infected?_

"Hostile?" I whispered out loud without realizing it. I frowned again, and Jerry stayed silent as I kept on reading down the list.

_c) Q: The military advises the public arm themselves in their safe houses, but CEDA's certified safe rooms have banned the possession of firearms. Where does the discrepancy arise?_

"Jerry, what's going on?" I said, my eyes bugging in horror and my heart thumping hard in my chest. Firearms? For a flu?

He gulped in some air. "Channel 10 was commissioned by CEDA to report the infection as a flu. The Green Flu, they wanted us to call it, because it conveyed more urgency than just a normal illness, because people could tell at least that this was something different from a flu to begin with. Yes, it has a higher mortality rate, and even higher virulence, but it also has a tendency to create antagonistic behaviors in its victims, and they lose all human inhibitions and attack others on sight."

_3. Infected ward (CEDA DEAD trailers): stationary shot._

_4. CEDA advisory posters: still frame._

_5. Interview: Green Flu field researcher: foreground, subject; background, DEAD trailer._

_a) Q: What is known of the infection thus far?_

_b) Q: What advice to you give to those being attacked by an infected?_

_c) Q: How long does it take for an individual to succumb to the symptoms of the Green Flu?_

_6. Morgan, foreground; evac center, background—it is expected by CEDA officials that the infection will spread throughout all of North America within the next two months. It is highly advised to collect on ample provisions, construct a safe house as prescribed by CEDA, or leave the country by the most accessible and safest means possible. Do not come into contact with any of the infected; protect yourself accordingly; keep your health documentation in your possession at all times; and do not attempt by any means of entering quarantined cities or zones established by CEDA. Remember to maintain a healthy state of mind, and take any steps necessary as outlined by Civil Defense to protect yourself and your family. This is Morgan Bemeau, Eyewitness 10 News, reporting._

"Rochelle?" Jerry said, snapping me back to reality.

"Jerry."

"Rochelle, the infection, it..." he stuttered. "It's the fucking _apocalypse_, Rochelle, I'm serious."

"Jerry..."

"I knew all this, and I still sent you in to do the story. I thought if I told you, you wouldn't do it, but when I found out all the staff had died except a handful, I knew I needed you to report the story that needed to be told, because... because we're all going to _die_ if CEDA keeps handling this like they are, and I didn't want to get eaten alive knowing there was something I could've done to save more people..."

I was dead quiet as Jerry started sobbing on the other end. Jacob was watching me with the camera, his face creased with worry, probably reflecting my own. _Infection. High mortality rate. Hostility. Apocalypse._

"Listen," Jerry said, sniffing loudly, "First sign of trouble, you three jump in the van and come straight home, all right? If there's any attacks, _any_ chance you'll get sucked in to that evac center and become a zombie, you get the hell out—"

The line went dead, and I pulled the phone away from my ear slowly to look at it, as if I couldn't move any faster, or I was too afraid to even exist. The screen on the receiver read: _Connection Lost_, and the signal icon had a comical X over it.

"Hey, Ro," Jacob said, approaching me. "What'd the boss have to say?"

I closed the phone, avoiding looking at Jacob. Because, I thought, if I looked him in the eye, he would see how scared shitless I was, and he would know, too. "He said we do as much as we can. If we leave early, he'll have no complaints."

Jacob huffed. "Well, that's a new one. Mr. Prestige always wants his shots exactly as he says or there's no fruitcake next Christmas bonus."

_Zombie_, was all I was hearing.

I slipped the cell phone back on to my belt slowly, trying to get my mind into gear. "Is the camera ready?"

"Yup. Oh, well, almost. I have to get the hard disk in and cleared first."

"All right," I said softly. He went back into the van to get the hard disk. I could hear Morgan moaning more loudly from the van, and a CEDA worker heard it, too. He started towards me, his eyes glued to the open van door where Morgan was visible.

"Is your colleague feeling ill?" he asked, looking at me pointedly. He towered over me and pointed over at Morgan, scowling at me like he was scolding a kid.

"Yeah, actually," I said, shrinking a little. "Since this morning."

He grabbed me roughly by the arm, and I tried to shrug him off. "Why didn't you report that?"

"Why didn't you ask?"

"Shit," he muttered, waving to a group of his colleagues frantically. "Level One, we've got a Level One!"

Morgan called out in her sleep, and it seemed shit stopped the moment everyone honed in on her. I suppose that's when I realized that we were doing a report on the Green Flu, and that was just what Morgan had had all this time.

"Shit," I muttered, stepping back. All of the sudden, we were swarmed by hazmat suits. Morgan groaned a little louder as two men grabbed her from the van and pulled her away. When she opened her eyes, she looked right at me, showing me the lifeless glaring white they had in them. Then she opened her mouth and let out a loud, horrifying shriek.

My hands flew to my ears, and all of the sudden, the din of the protesters along the fence morphed into a chorus of cries. It wasn't a typical scream you'd usually expect from a vain, self-centered prima donna. Hell, it wasn't a sound you'd expect form a human being. It sounded like a mix of nails running down a chalkboard with metal gears grinding and a a dinosaur roaring.Everyone's face twisted into an expression of pain as she screamed, and I thought at first that the CEDA workers dropped Morgan, but as she tore away down the road, I realized she'd overpowered them.

"Contain the infected!" one of the guys in the suits said. "Do not use excessive force! _Contain the infected!_"

After Morgan stopped shrieking, there were other screams to replace hers. The civilians on either side of the fence started scattering, screaming incoherently. Jacob had ended up on the ground somehow, the camera strewn a couple feet away. His hands were still over his ears, and he kept muttering, "Shit, shit, shit," over and over. I could practically feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins like lava, and my heart probably could have beat its way out of my chest, it was pumping so hard.

I ran up to the camera, picking it up and flicking the record function. It still worked, and the screen behind the eye piece flickered to life. I panned the line of cars, watching the people start them and drive off or abandon them altogether. I turned to the gates of the evac center just in time to see the buses roaring to life, ready to take away the people who were already fortunate to be inside. They were too late to evacuate everyone; the infection was already here, and we brought it right to their doorstep.

Underneath all the screaming and shouting from the people around us, I could barely hear something else, something almost animal. Jacob suddenly grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, and when I turned to him, I caught a shot of him pointing frantically into the distance. I zoomed in with the lens to see the people who'd been running from the area being swiped down and beaten by a group of more people.

"Holy _shit!_" I shouted, lowering the camera and grabbing a handful of Jacob's shirt. "We gotta get out of here! _Move!"_

I threw the camera into the van a little less than gracefully, then slammed the door shut. Jacob tore open the passenger side of the door, sliding across the seat to the driver's side. I dove in after him, and as I shut the door, I caught a glimpse of a crowd of people running towards us with alarming speed.

"Jacob," I shouted at him uneasily, "get this goddamn van started!"

"Shit!" he cried, twisting the ignition fiercely. The engine failed to spark. "_Shit!_"

"Jacob!" The group got closer. A bus drove out of the gates of the evac center, passing us by and plowing through a horde of the charging mob. My hands flew over my mouth as a strangled scream escaped me.

The engine finally caught, and Jacob immediately pulled the van into drive and threw us around, driving back the way we came, through the ranks of what I now could see were legions of infected.

"They're not moving!" Jacob shouted.

"Just drive over them!"

Sickening thump after thump, Jacob pummeled into the infected. The van jumped and slid occasionally from the sheer number of people in the way, and I kept screaming every time one of them swiped at the windows, or when I could hear one of their strangled cries as we ran them over. The more people we ran over, the harder it was to tell who was infected and who wasn't.

Jacob kept driving for half an hour at top speed, long after we cleared the danger. The van's windshield resembled a morbid spider's web; it was cracked, covered in blood and pieces of unidentifiable body parts, and had a distinct impression of a human face in the lower corner on Jacob's side. When we made it back to the junction on the highway, there were already roadblocks in place. Jacob pulled over on the service road and put the van in park. The only sound was of us breathing and the music of Meatloaf, which had been playing the entire time we mowed down infected after infected. Zombie after zombie.

_There's evil in the air and there's thunder in the sky_

_And a killer's on the bloodshot streets_

_And down in the tunnel where the deadly are rising..._

"Did you get some shots?" Jacob breathed, still gripping the wheel, staring through the only clear spot on the windshield that was left.

"Ya-huh," I whispered back, still panting heavily.

"I think maybe we should head back home now," he muttered, his knuckles tightening on the wheel.

_I should've stayed home today, _I thought to myself.


	4. Coach

_Note: I do not own VALVe or any of its affiliates. Consider this a disclaimer to the characters/themes/what have you presented in this story._

**4: Coach**

At the ripe age of forty-four, I thought I'd seen everything. I'd been born and raised a proper Christian by my grandmother, and I'd seen enough of God's miracles to think I knew enough of the world to call myself a wise man. I'd seen the world stand up to all odds, wading through the Lake of Fire to protect what was theirs. The night things went to Hell, though, I realized I ain't seen nothin' yet. None of us had. We'd gone through weeks of warning and precaution against the Green Flu, but I never thought it'd hit so fast, or as hard.

Rather not talk about it, but I guess I should start on that night. It was a Thursday night, and just the day before, we'd heard that a bunch of evac stations were poppin' up around the city like kernels over a fire. Despite all that mumbo jumbo shit, my boys still came out to play their game, and so did the other team. I taught the boys physical ed class at Fairbanks High School, and I also coached the senior football team—my pride an' joy. Some of 'em were most obviously sick, like my biggest linebacker, Herb. He was pale and shaky; his tackling arm had a bad rash all the way down the side, and it seemed swollen and puffy, like he had some sort of infection. He and the other sick boys refused to sit out, though, and damn, was I proud of 'em. All of 'em were playing hard when the cops came.

The moment they stepped out of their vehicles and headed towards me, I could almost smell the heat in the air. They was marching towards me like it was the end of the world. Hah, well, I guess that's a pretty damn accurate description, lookin' back now.

"Are you in charge of this game?" an officer asked me as he got close. He was some lanky, white-ass joe with a thick black mustache and beard. I already started sizin' him up as he stepped next to me.

"Well, no, Larry's technically in charge of the game, being that he's the ref—"

"Everyone here needs to evacuate the premises for the closest evacuation center," he said, looking across the field. The ref blew his whistle to halt the game, and now everyone's attention was turned on the officers who were spreading through the field.

"Well, hold on, now," I said, "we can't just drop this game and leave, not without a good reason."

He looked at me like I just told him to do unspeakable things to his mother. He leaned in close to me, eyes still aflame, and said: "If you don't leave, I'll make you leave."

"Under what charges?" I said, folding my arms across my chest and cocking my head. Yeah, good old Coach, stubborn to the very goddamn end.

"Obstructin' an officer's duty," he said smoothly, then shifted his weight and spoke lower. "Half the neighborhoods in the city have been cleared out already. The city's under evacuation orders; the infection's already hit Savannah hard."

I stared at him, dumbstruck. "You talkin' 'bout that flu?"

He shook his head. "This ain't no flu."

The other police officers started waving players off the field. One with a megaphone directed everyone to the police vans; they were gonna drive some of us to the evacuation centers. The parents who were in the stands came down to collect their sons, but they weren't permitted to take their own vehicles. The police said that they'd arrest anyone who tried to resist, and that they would use excessive force to stop anyone who tried to escape.

"My daughter is alone at home, I need to go back for her," one mother protested. "She's only sixteen, she can't drive yet, and she won't know how to get to any evac centers. Oh, for God's sake, just let me go!"

She was assured that a unit would be dispatched to pick her up along with other children left at home, and that she would be safe. Some ladies started crying as officers escorted them off to the vans, and some football players started shouting and raising hell against the law.

"Sorry it has to be this way, folks, but these are times of desperate measures," the officer with the beard said as the others tried to shut everyone up and get them in the vans. He looked me in the eye, and we shared a look of understanding between each other. "You can ride in our cruiser."

Jack, my quarterback, and Herb came to the game of their own means, but they weren't allowed to go home to their families, either. "They will be notified where you are and you will be put into contact at a later date," one of the officers told them. They were both strong boys, but at that moment, they looked like lost, hurt mutts. Herb seemed to get paler by the second.

"You boys ride with me," I said to them, patting them on the shoulders. I knew it wouldn't comfort them so much as being able to go back to their parents and brothers and sisters, but I hoped that being int heir company might make them feel less vulnerable and more like the tough ass players that they were. "We'll sit tight in one of those evac centers until the storm blows over. Sound like cherry pie?"

"With vanilla on top," they both said weakly in unison—something I taught my entire team over the weeks.

"Keep your spirits up, boys," I said, leading them to the cruiser. "Things'll be set right by the end of the night."

The three of us piled into the back of the cop car, wedged up shoulder to shoulder. Jack was a slim boy of seventeen—six feet and 185 pounds, all lean meat and muscle. But I was a bit hefty around the middle, and Herb was simply a beast, so we was a little cramped for space, to say the least.

As we tried to get comfy, we fastened our seat belts, and the car took off. I pulled my last Helupanut bar from my pocket and offered some to Jack and Herb. Jack declined, but Herb looked like he'd vomit on me if I held it any closer to his face. "All yours, Coach."

I loved my Helupanut bars. I'd do damn near anything for a taste of that milk chocolaty goodness. All in all, I was a man of my snacks. My doctor... hell, everyone I knew told me to lay off the sweets. Even the boys gave me shit from time. But I would sooner die and face the fiery gates of Hell before I gave up sweets forever. As I bit into my chocolate, I chewed slowly. Every bite was like my first, and I savored it every time. I always told myself, "Any man can live without a lady as long as he's got his sweets." At least, that seemed true for me.

"Too bad you couldn't finish your game," I said to the boys, always waiting to swallow before I spoke. My grandmother always told me never to talk with my mouth full, among other things, bless her soul. "You boys were playin' all right."

"I dunno, Coach," Jack said, shrugging modestly, "I don't think my throwing arm was in it tonight. I should've been a little gentler on it this week, I guess."

"Don't be too hard on yourself—never did anyone a bit of good." I took another bite, chewing it slowly. After I swallowed, I turned to Herb. "An' you, Herb, you were right _nasty_ with those other boys. You been practicin' on your old man or somethin'?"

Herb just shrugged and shivered, staying quiet. "No, I just.... Maybe... no. I just feel—angry. All the time." He had his arms folded over his chest, and his sickly face was turned towards the window. He'd kept his helmet on, saying it helped his migraine hurt less. "I just wanted to... just _ram_ people, you know, Coach?"

"Mm, you be careful with that, boy," I said cautiously, pointing at him with my chocolate bar. "If you let anger get a'hold a'ya, the quicker it stops bein' a game and starts wearing you down."

"I know, I know, I just..." he trailed off, keeping his eyes glued outside. His bad arm seemed to puff up even more since it had before the game started, and the rash was starting to spread even more. I told myself I was being crazy, but I could've sworn his other arm was shrinkin'. But I just figured it was the bulk of his inflamed arm that made it smaller by comparison.

By the time I finished my Helupanut bar, we was already heading down the service road next to the highway. It was filled to the brim with cars, trucks, and buses, all trying to get their asses out of Savannah. "Well, holy shit," I muttered, leaning towards Herb's window to look at the line of cars stretching all the way across the highway. "This don't look good."

"What's goin' on, Coach?" Jack said, watching the cars with concern. "Why is everyone trying to leave?"

I remembered the officer's eyes when he told me, "This ain't no flu." I looked to the front seat, and I could see just his eyes fixed on mine through the rear view mirror.

"This flu's pretty serious, Jack," I said, tearing my eyes away from the cop. "This flu is pretty damn serious."

After we got off the service road, we were making our way towards downtown, when there was a loud _bang_ of metal crunching against metal. All of us in the car jumped, and the officers in the front cursed as the driver veered suddenly to the right, going down a side road.

"What in the hell?" I shouted, grabbing onto the shoulders of each seat in front of me to pull myself straight again. We were zooming down the side road at top speed, and the cop behind the wheel was on his radio. "What just happened?" I asked, looking between the two.

The officer in the passenger seat drew his pistol, and my blood started to run cold. "We've been assailed."

"Say it in English!" I yelled a little too harshly.

"They're attacking!" the officer shot back.

As we drove out onto an empty road, the officer turned left and started to head back towards the other vans that had been attacked. I still gripped the front seats, and Jack went stark white and dead silent beside me. I could hear Herb growling faintly under his breath, his chin tucked into his chest and his hands clasping his helmet. I barely noticed it, though; the adrenaline was pumping so hard through my veins that I didn't have a chance to see anything else other than the road ahead of us and hear the distant gun shots that had started to pop.

As we made the second left and headed towards the road we were on before, the gunshots had stopped, and instead all we could hear was screams. As we made the last turn onto the route, the only thing we could see through the windshield was a big ass mass of red and brown.

"MUTHA FU—" I shouted, just before the hulk in front of us roared and flipped our car backward.

All I could hear was shouts as the car did a back flip. My hands flew to the ceiling, and I watched as the night sky passed over our view, then the road behind us. The cruiser landed on its roof, and just before the ceiling crunched down on my head, I ducked low and threw my arms over me. We landed heavy; the wind was knocked from my lungs and my bones were jostled around in their sockets. I felt disoriented for a second, like I'd been tackled by five defensive linemen wearing metal armor, and I stayed hanging from the seat belt that pinned me down, my head slumped against the crunched roof. I could hear that big thing roaring, sounding like it was coming from far off rather than right by the car.

"Shit," I choked, finding it hard to breathe. I tried to push myself away from the top of the car to help get some air in my lungs, but there was no more room to move. Herb was pressed hard against my left side, and I could feel him wiggling and pushing, trying to get out of the car. I could barely feel Jack moving on my right side, but I could feel him moving, nonetheless.

"Boys?" I said, sounding like a eighty year-old smoker, "one of you is gonna hafta try and squeeze through the windows."

"Everyone all right?" the officer wheezed from the front. I gurgled, trying to push myself off the roof again to try and get more air to talk.

"Alive," I squawked back. But I couldn't figure out for the life of me just what the fuck happened. The ground shook as whatever the hell it was that hit us ran off.

I could hear Herb moaning and growling again, and as he shimmied next to me, I could feel him putting pressure on the car, as if he were trying to jack it wide to get out. "Herb, keep calm," I tried to say, thinking he was startin' to panic over being closed up in a tight space. "You gonna hurt yourself!"

I heard the metal creak as Herb pushed up against it again, and suddenly I felt myself rising off the ceiling of the car. I gulped in some air once I could straighten my neck, then I turned my head to the side to see Herb start to push himself out of the car window that he'd somehow stretched like a metal spoon.

"Herb!" I called out, coughing to clear my lungs. "Herb, watch yourself, goddammit!" I knew that huge ass thing that flipped us over still had to be out there, and I knew it'd take Herb out in one punch if he came face to face with it. After he cleared the window and rolled out, I unbuckled my seat belt, slouching hard against the ceiling again, and then tried to reach for Jack's belt. He was let free, and he groaned as he slumped against the top of the cab, too. I tried to claw my way out of the car after Herb, inching my way slowly over the twisted metal. I could already feel blood starting to ooze down my forehead and out of my nose.

I squeezed out of the car, coughin' and wheezin', and I looked up to look for Herb or that giant thing that'd flipped us, but both were gone. Instead, I saw another officer limping over towards our car from the mass of vans, holding his pistol out defensively. "You folks all right?"

He helped me to my feet, and I leaned on my knees, waitin' for the world to stop spinning. "Did you see where that kid went? The one who climbed out of the car just before me?" As I asked him I searched the street, tryin' to figure out why he'd taken off like that.

The officer shook his head. "No, but that thing that was attacking us might still be around here. We need to be careful."

"Rick, we need some help down here!" the officer from the car shouted. He knelt down to try and pull the others from the front seats, while I hobbled around to the other side to see if I could drag Jack out of the car.

"How you holdin' up, boy?" I said, slowly pulling Jack through the broken window. He hissed a couple times, and once I let go of him, he clambered to his feet, favoring his right side. "I think I hurt somethin' bad, Coach. My leg don't feel right."

"Broken?"

"No, just twisted it funny. I think I'll be okay."

The others were pulled out of the van, and we all stood stooped, tryin' to recover from the shock. Whatever that hunka meat was, it flipped over most of the vans and caused the others to crash into each other. One cruiser was resting on a broken fire hydrant, and water gushed everywhere from underneath it.

"That's all of us?" the driver of our cruiser asked the other officer. He nodded, and we both cussed, turning the air blue.

"What in God's name was that thing?" the driver asked. I looked at the mess of metal on the road, trying to find the bodies of my team while hoping not to at the same time. I saw an arm from behind the wheel of one of the vans, blood slowly pooling around it. I clenched my fists and bit my bottom lip. I kept thinking, not my boys, never my boys.

"I dunno, but..." the other officer paused, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "Whatever it was, it wasn't human anymore."

"We have to keep movin'," the second officer from our car said. "The nearest evacuation station should be about three blocks away. We need to get these civilians there as fast as we can."

"Right. Rick, are you sure no one else survived the attack?"

"Positive. That thing..." his voice cut short, but he didn't need to finish his sentence for me to know what happened.

Herb?" Jack shouted, looking around the road. I felt heat rising in my throat; a mix of worry, of fear, of rage. I started towards the vans, and one of the officers called out after me.

"Stay as a group!" he shouted.

I shook my head as I walked away. "I need to see for myself."

"We need to get moving _now—_"

"I said I need to see for my own goddamn self!"

I rounded the nose of the first van, peering in between the cracks of the other cars piled together. One van formed a T the first; it was flipped over and squished down from the top, one body pinned underneath it. Blood was oozin' from the windows, and I choked on my breath, moving on. I squeezed in between that van and a police cruiser that was on its side. The two officers in the front were dead, and the three people in the back were piled together, motionless. I recognized them as the Hamptons; one entire family gone.

"Shit," I muttered, feeling my throat get tight. I kept moving through the wreckage, but all I found were more ultimatums I didn't want to accept. After I checked all the vans, I'd dug my nails into my palms so hard, I cut through my gloves and drew blood. All my boys and most of their parents were dead. I blew hot air out my nose and bowed my head, trying not to cry.

"It won't do no good here," I told myself, my voice cracking. I breathed in deep, trying to regain myself and turn the truth into fact. They were all dead. Everything I knew was surrounding me right now, and all of them were dead, but I had to move on. But I couldn't leave them dead and alone like they were; I wanted to give 'em a bit of guidance, anything I could to set them on the right way.

I raised my hands together then, and started a small prayer. "Lord our God, You are always faithful and quick to show mercy." I sighed, still trying to fight off my floodgates. "My boys were taken by this... plague, or whatever comes after it. Come to their aid, have mercy on them, and... forgive all of us, for whatever sins we wrought to deserve this... this sickness. Amen."

'Coach?" Jack said from behind me. I turned to face him, looking him over. He certainly did hurt his leg something nasty, and blood was leakin' from his thigh. "Coach, we should get a move on, see if we can find Herb."

"Jack, I'ma get you outta here. We'll go with those officers to the evac center, and then we'll find your parents."

"Okay, Coach," he said. I patted him on the shoulder, and he gave a thin grin back. He led the way out from between the vans, and we joined the officers. None of us said anything as we started out, jogging as fast as we all could with our injuries as we headed for the evac station.

After we ran two blocks, we could hear the sounds of the evac center; people shouting, engines of buses roaring to life—we could even hear a helicopter approaching. As we turned our last corner, we saw the center in our sights, and the helicopter flew over our heads, heading for the clearing in the middle of the station.

"Go! Go! Go!" the skinny ass officer said, and we all pushed ourselves harder. Jack and I threw our arms over each other, him trying to keep me on my feet, me trying to keep him off his bad leg. As we got closer to the evac center and the helicopter wasn't blaring noise in our ears, I could hear these freaky-ass screams from behind us. I threw a glance over my shoulder, and I saw a crowd of people (even some cops) rushing after us. I thought at first that they was just a whole whack of people running for the evac, but then I realized that all of them were pale, covered in blood, and not screaming, but howling.

"HAUL ASS!" I shouted, trying to push myself harder. Everyone else looked over their shoulders, and the three officers in front of us moved to cover us, aiming their pistols and firing into the army of infected people closin' ranks.

"What in the hell, Coach?!" Jack shouted over the din of noise. As we ran closer to the center, more officers came out and started unloading their weapons on the mob behind us. We could see people in hazmat suits trying to fight with the police officers to stop 'em from shootin', while all the other escapees scattered, trying to force their way into the buses that were preparing to leave.

"This ain't no flu, Jack!" I shouted back. "This is the goddamn apocalypse!"

As we headed through the entrance, most of the buses started driving off. A couple of them damn near ran over us, not waiting to stop for anyone else. Every time we crossed a stationary bus, Jack and I banged on the closed doors, but none of them opened up. They drove off without us, not one having the room to take us, most just not willing to open its doors again until they cleared the hell that was approaching from the streets. As we went deeper into the evac center, I realized the only chance either of us had left was the helicopter.

"C'mon!" I shouted, pushing Jack just a little further. Both of us were tuckered out, and my head felt too light to be runnin' around the way I was. But the helicopter wasn't but thirty feet away, and I could see the pilot and the other guy sittin' in it looking right at us. "Don't leave," I kept muttering with each breath, "don't you dare leave, you piece of shit copter—"

"Get on!" the closest guy said to us as we got close. I took Jack's arm off of me, leading him to the platform. He tried to climb up, minding his injured leg, and the second guy helped pull him full onto the bay. I threw a quick look over my shoulder; most of the buses had driven off, and those that were still left behind were swarmed with the infected people, who were banging at the sides like they were beggars around a tour bus. Through the mass of people, I saw less than a dozen officers tryin' to fight off the infected, overcome with the kicks and punches they were being dealt by the sick. But the one thing that caught my eye was the glimpse of purple and yellow I saw all the way near the front of the center.

"Herb!" I shouted, turning back to Jack. "Listen, Herb's here. I'ma go get him, you stay with the copter!"

"Coach, it's gonna leave without you!" he shouted. "You'll get beat up if you try to go back!"

"If this copter leaves without us, we will see you at the safe zone!" I shouted back. I slapped him on the shoulder. "Sound like cherry pie?"

His eyes went wide. "Coach!"

I turned away from him, jogging back towards the mass of people. The buses drove off, the infected following them, trying to beat them in. When I got closer to the front, I caught a glimpse of Herb's jersey and helmet again, and I headed towards him.

Before I got within ten feet of him, one of the buses drove close to Herb. I heard him give this loud trumpeting, almost like a dying humpback whale, and then he lowered his charging arm, dashing right for the bus. I started shouting for him, but I could barely hear myself over all the shit that was going on. Herb cleared through the infected like they was pylons, and collided right into the bus's side.

I swore as the bus teetered on its two wheels, then slowly tipped over. Before it even hit the ground, the sick people started climbing over it and beating on the windows, smashing them. I could hear faint screaming from inside as the infected reached in and attacked.

Within minutes, the entire evac center had become a war zone. CEDA had scattered, the police were still firing, but some lay sprawled on the ground, cold or dead, and the last bus to drive out of the compound tried to run over as many infected as it could on its way out. As it left, I saw Herb lying amongst the dead infected.

"_Shit!_" I roared, landing on my knees and pounding the ground. I looked over my shoulder to see the copter carrying up into the air, and I could barely make out Jack trying to shout down at me.

When it flew back over my head, I followed its path. Then I caught sights of three infected people charging me, and I got to my feet as fast I could. I didn't know what to do, so thinking the quickest I could on my feet, I lifted my fists and punched the first one in the nose that came at me. Her nose crunched under my knuckles, and she flopped back onto the ground with a hard _whack_. The other two charged me, and I stepped forward with my arms splayed wide, clotheslining them both.

Now, I ain't gonna lie; my knuckles and my arms hurt something fierce from that, but it bought me some time. I looked around to see if there was anything I could use as a weapon, and the closest thing that caught my eye was the mountain of suitcases piled near the entrance. I rushed toward them, picking one up that was made of hard plastic, and turned back around to see them coming after me again.

I smacked the first one upside the head with the case, then punted the second in the belly with the edge. When he bent over himself, I came down hard on the back of his neck, and he fell face first into the pavement. As the last one came at me, I chucked the case at her, making her stumble. The clothes that were inside scattered everywhere, and right at my feet fell an old, beat-up, antique hunting knife lost inside the clothes.

I picked it up, then towered over the bitch on the floor who struggled to get up from underneath the open suitcase. She flailed around, making noises like a goddamn banshee. I kicked her in the ribs, flipping her onto her back, then let out my own roar before I drove the knife into the back of her skull. I dug it so deep, it refused to come out again.

I stood in the empty evac station, trying to catch my breath. I lifted a hand to my face to wipe the blood from my eyes, looking over the toppled bus. All the infected were still clambering inside, and I could still hear a couple screams from the people who were trapped.

I moved over to a cruiser that'd been pinned between a cement blockade and another crashed car. An officer was hangin' out of the half-opened car door. "God be with you, brother," I said, taking his pistol from his dead hand. "Hope you don't mind, but I'll be needin' your things to save some other folks."

I opened the door more and lowered the man onto the road as gently as possible, then settled into the driver's seat. Now, Coach hadn't drove in years—livin' right next to the school grounds, I never saw a need to—but I figured that traffic would be light and cops would be occupied with other duties than flagging down unlicensed drivers.

The moment the car started, I hit every switch on the dashboard and the wheel until the sirens went off. Just as I'd hoped, all the infected on the bus shot their dead eyes in my direction, forgetting all about the poor people in the bus they were beating to death. I pulled the car into gear and sped off around the bus, heading in the direction the other buses had gone. I watched in the rear view mirror as all the sick people chased my car, like a pack of wild animals. I kept up a pace too fast for them to catch, but slow enough to keep their attention for a few miles.

It took me a couple minutes to figure out how to turn on the headlights, but by the time I did, it was pitch black in Savannah. I ran over every goddamn bitch I saw, hoping each one I mowed down would take the pain away from losing my team. Revenge is a best dish served cold, though, but no matter how much of it I ate, I never felt full.

After I'd lost the trail of infected, I found a back alley in the downtown sector to park the cruiser and rest. I kept the pistol in hand the entire night, just waiting for a bitch to come pound on my windows so I could shoot his head off.

I started thinking of my grandmother. The very last time I saw her was the year 1999, just before Christmas and New Years. We had dinner with my aunts and uncles and cousins—even my cousins' children—and boy, did we eat. Those holidays was my favorite of the year, because of all the food and deserts my aunts made for the family. But most of all, it was because the whole family was together, and because my grandmother was there with us.

After dinner that evenin', her and I were sittin' be the fire, reminiscing on my college ball years, talking about all the memories she had of my dirty-ass room and the ones I had of her raising hell for it. But as we started gettin' sleepier, we sat in silence for a while, until she said something I didn't expect.

"Son, are you still a prayin' man?"

I didn't answer her right away. She was either testin' my faith or gearing me up for a story. But I knew she wanted a truthful answer, so I made sure to think it over proper.

"Yes, ma'am, I am."

She looked outside the window, shaking her head. "Well, pray harder," she said, "'cause it ain't workin'."

I didn't know what she meant really. But a few weeks later, my uncle called me up to say she'd gone to God.

I didn't sleep one bit that night.


	5. Ellis 2

Note: I do not own VALVe or any of its affiliates. Consider this a disclaimer to the characters/themes/what have you presented in this story.

On another note: SO. I know I said this story was discontinued, but I found this chapter collecting dust in my files. And I realized that this was a chapter I had COMPLETELY FORGOTTEN TO ADD TO THE STORY. Like, a year ago. And my beta buddy did all this hard work, so I can't disgrace her and not post it. And who knows—maybe I'll get the kick I need to keep writing this someday.

5: Ellis

I woke up in the dark, splutterin random words from the dream I'd had. I was at Mom's for dinner, and she served me this soup that was the same green goo that the mister from Minnesota was spewin up everywhere, and I told her that I couldn't eat it, and she started beatin me, sayin she wouldn't stop until I had myself a spoonful.

After I'd rubbed my eyes clear, I figured out I was still in the DEAD trailer those fellas chucked me into. Since then, they'd poked an' prodded me with so many needles, I coulda fit right in at a porcupine farm. Someone had come to tell me that I wasn't sick, but they couldn't let me go until they ran one more test. He said he'd be back to take some more samples—I dunno, maybe chop my nose off for testin, the way those guys were treatin me—but he never did come back. I fell asleep waitin, an' while I didn' have a clue on the time, I knew someone shoulda been back by now to wake me up.

"Hello?" I muttered. "Anyone in here?"

After about two seconds, I got off the examination table I'd taken to napping on, an' stuck my arms out in front of me as I shuffled around the trailer, tryin to find a window or the door so's I could see outside. I bumped into a table, and all the sudden there was this loud crash as a buncha bottles and other glass stuff smashed on the floor.

"Shit!" I hissed, tryin to grab for the table I'd bumped into to straighten it, should more fragile stuff go flyin. After I was sure the coast was clear, I felt my way around the table, then found my way to the wall. I inched along it, scutterin like a crab until I found a crack in the wall. I found the knob (which was more like a car door handle) and pulled it, pushing the heavy door just a couple inches open.

It was late evenin, and it was dead quiet outside. I peeked around the corner, tryin to see if anybody was there. I usually was a big mouth, but bein that it was so silent, I took to whisperin, like I was in a library or somethin. "Hello?"

I opened the door a little more, then looked all the way down the parkin lot, towards the Save 4 Less. There were more cars and CEDA trailers all over the place, and in between all of those was people. They were just standin there, some were staggerin around. I saw a guy in a hazmat suit fightin Steve, the Cashier Manager at the Save 4 Less.

"Hey, Steve!" I yelled out, pushin the door open and steppin out of the trailer. "Whatcha y'all fightin over?"

All the sudden, everyone in the parkin lot turned to me, and shit just stopped for a couple seconds.

"What?" I said, "you were just gonna let 'em brawl it out?"

I looked into everyone else's faces. Tina, the Customer Service girl, was lookin at me with her mouth hangin all the way open, like she was catchin flies. That's when the CEDA guy started runnin towards me. I backed up a little, holdin my hands out for mercy, but he just kept comin.

"Whoa, buddy, calm down!"

He looked like he was gettin ready to take a swing at me, and I ducked to the right just before he collided with me. He smacked up against the trailer door mighty hard and fell on his back. There was a big crack on his mask, an' underneath that, I could see his face all bloodied and black, his eyes glowin like a wild dog.

"What's wrong with you?" I bellowed, inchin away. It was a double-headed question; I didn' know why he was tryin to take swipes at me, but I was worried about how sickly he looked, too.

I heard this fast-paced pit pat pit pat behind me, an' I turned to see everyone in the parkin lot chargin, squealin like pigs an' hissin like cats.

"Ho, shit!" I shouted, then turned to run into my garage. There had to be, like, twenty of 'em chasin me down. When I got inside, they were gainin on me quick, so thinkin fast on my feet, I jumped onto the bed of my '79 Ford Pickup, then turned an' made a jump for the garage door. My hands hooked onto the edges, and I came sailin' down, the door screechin all the way. I landed on my feet and swung my arms down, slammin the door onto the ground. Not one second later, loud thump after thump rang out in the garage as every person out there collided with the old rusty metal, bangin away at it like they was tryin to break through an' beat the shit out of me.

"Jesus H.," I gasped, backin away from the door and towards the breakers. It was pitch black in there, save for the thin crack under the garage door, where evenin light poured in, castin shadows of those people's feet as they kept beatin on the door.

I snapped on all the lights, then went to look for something that would guarantee the doors would stay shut. I scuttered around my garage until I found the spare keys we kept hidden in the jar of knick knacks above the tool bench, then ran to the door and tried to lock it. All the people were still beatin on it from the outside, so it was hard to get the key in the lock and twist it without it poppin out every other second, but once I had it looked, I slouched down on the floor next to it, sighin with relief. I didn' know how resourceful those crazy folks were, but I felt comfortable knowin they'd be kept out a little longer with the garage door in place.

That's when I started gettin to thinkin. I remembered how weird everythin had been that day, what with the depressed stranger, then the armada of hazmat dudes. Then I started to play the scene over in my head where everyone started chasin me down. I thought maybe they was lookin for a fight, but then I thought that maybe the flu made them not all right in the head, and then I started to realize that that was what the whole flu was about—they weren't right in the head anymore, and they'd beat my ass if I let 'em.

"They're gonna try and kill me," I said out loud, shakin my head. They really was after my ass. An' then I supposed I had no choice but to fight back.

"I can't take all those folks on by my lonesome," I told myself. "Might as well serve yourself up on a spit with an apple stuffed in your pie hole."

That's when my eyes landed on my tool bench. I had goddamn near everythin. Stuff I didn' even need. And I had a garage full of scrap parts ain't nobody'd ever put on their car.

Then I looked at my truck.

* * *

About four hours later, those people had stopped beatin on my garage door, an' I was able to slip my key in and unlock the thing. I gripped the door, screwin up my face like I was thinkin real hard, then counted.

On three, I threw the door open, and the light from the garage struck a good fifty people in the face. They was all just staggerin around outside my door, and as soon as the light hit 'em, they all got angry, hissin an' screamin. I picked up my shotgun from the ground next to me faster than I could say "shoot" and pointed it in the crowd.

"I ain't afraid to shoot y'all if you—"

They all started chargin me.

"For Christ's—!" I ran for my truck. I jumped inside and slammed the door shut just before the first loony got his hands on me. An' I thought that'd be protection enough, because my truck was the most bad ass, terrifyin piece of work you'd ever see. I had spike plates nail-gunned to the doors; saw blades on axle extensions off of every tire; barbed wire linin the sides of the truck bed that had "DIE, DIE MY DARLINGS" spray painted on it (not 'cause I wanted to kill nobody, but I thought it was intimidatin enough, not to mention I love that song); and I even had a goddamn U-blade welded to the grill. It was a bitchin monster truck that woulda had me arrested in at least forty-eight other states for drivin, and I was hopin I wouldn't hafta drive it over anybody.

Before I could even get myself situated in my seat again, at least a dozen sick people was all over my truck. They was smearin their faces on the windshield, cuttin themselves on all the sharp bits on the truck and bleedin all over it, too. The scariest part was that they didn't seem to be bothered in the slightest that they was hurtin themselves just to get at me. I looked into all their faces; they were all pale, some with sores breakin and pussin, with dried black blood oozin from their eyes an ears—but worst of all: their eyes were glowin like Terminator or some sort of some weird damn sci-fi space shit. Like they wasn't human.

And I came to the craziest conclusion I had all day.

"You're all motherfucking zombies," I whispered. "I built a goddamn zombie truck for goddamn zombies."

I turned the key that I'd left in the ignition, flicked on my headlights, blared my horn, and pulled the car into gear, speedin off through the parkin lot.

The zombies that were on the hood of my truck rolled off, an' I felt the car lurch as I ran over them. I drove passed the trailer that I'd been holed up in all afternoon, clippin a zombie on my way past with the edge of the U-blade, flippin him head over heels. I really meant to swerve around the guy, but I was a little hopped up on adrenaline to miss him. The only thing I was worried about was the mass of people scattered everywhere across the lot, thicker than a goddamn forest. Even though I suited up Ol' Faithful to clear out hordes of people, I didn't expect to drive through every last one of 'em.

As I was workin on the truck, I found Keith's old stash of fireworks in the back of one of the tool sheds, and I got the crazy idea in my head to bring 'em along with my shotgun and my beer, thinkin they might come in handy. That and Keith would probably appreciate it if I brought him back his prized collection.

And as I sat in the truck facin the huge crowd of zombies that was gettin ready to charge my truck, I grabbed the book of matches I had on the seat beside me, struck one up, an reached for a firecracker.

The biggest mistake I made was reachin for the firecrackers with the hand that held the match, 'cause next thing I knew the entire box was on fire.

"SHI—T!" I hollered, rollin down my window as fast I could before chuckin the box out onto the pavement.

Firecrackers started goin off like crazy, an' like I thought, all those nutty zombies forgot all about me an' my truck and went for the explodin box. I started off again, my tires squeelin, and drove past all the zombies as they ran for the firecrackers. I looked in my side mirror to see one zombie get struck in the face by a blast of green.

"WOOO!" I cheered. I realized that it was something like this that I always wanted to do. Not run over people, I mean—just soup up a nasty ol' truck into a twisted work of art. I blared my horn one more time, and as I came up to a zombie just standin on the road, I opened my door an' let it slam into him. It didn't work quite like I thought it would, not like you see in movies an' all. The door slammed back real hard, an I almost thought it'd fall off from the impact. There were huge chunks of—stuff—hangin off the spike plates on my door, an' I grimaced. "Maybe that wan't such a hot idea," I muttered to myself.

I checked my rear view mirror to see everyone still crowdin 'round the box of glorified flares. There were a few zombies on Chatham Parkway, but not enough to get in my way and slow me down. I checked the radio stations, but all I got was static, until I got one looped message on the AM frequency—

"All evacuation stations for the greater Savannah, Georgia, area, are located in the downtown district and on all primary locations down highway 16. I repeat, all evacuation stations for Savannah are in the downtown district and on all primary locations down highway 16. Marsha, if you're hearin this, me an' Paul are gonna wait for you at the Vannah hotel. Message repeats."

Figurin everyone else probly had the same idea of listenin to the radio and the only broadcast on it, I decided I'd head over to the Vannah to try and see if Keith, Dave an' Mom were there, too. The road was mostly clear, so I broke open one of my Savannah Fests with my teeth an' started to drink. I figured the police had bigger problems on their hands than to flag down drinkin drivers. I just didn't know how many big problems I'd have for myself, neither.


End file.
